Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 063 - The Motion Mence

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THE MOTION MENACE
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. MEN WITH BEARDS
? Chapter II. THE WALL OF TERROR
? Chapter III. DEATH FANTASTIC
? Chapter IV. WHISKERED TROUBLE
? Chapter V. MYSTERIOUS MASTER
? Chapter VI. THE WORLD NET
? Chapter VII. THE TOWER ESCAPE
? Chapter VIII. SKY YACHT
? Chapter IX. HIGH HORROR
? Chapter X. AIR ACTION
? Chapter XI. THE INVISIBLE WALL
? Chapter XII. MANCHU MENACE
? Chapter XIII. THE TRICKSTER
? Chapter XIV. TROUBLE PILED UP
? Chapter XV. TRAPS AND BAIT
? Chapter XVI. LAIR
? Chapter XVII. THE TRICK THAT DIDN’T WORK
? Chapter XVIII. INERTIA
Chapter I. MEN WITH BEARDS
THE strange rumor that circulated when the China Rocket crashed did not get the attention it should
have.
When aviation was new, airplane company press agents got the habit of breathing hints of sabotage every
time there was a crack-up. Nothing definite. Just vagueness about Communists, terrorists, or some other
nebulous enemy.
The idea was for these whisperings to prevent the public getting the thought that maybe airplanes were
not as safe as they might be. This sort of thing eventually stopped, but the memory remained in the public
mind as old stuff.
The China Rocket was a luxury clipper from San Francisco to Shanghai, China. Two pilots and a radio
operator. Hot meals. Pretty hostesses whose smiles would take your mind off air-sickness and the size of
the Pacific Ocean, or who would hand you a paper bag if that didn’t work.
Divers had to be used to get what was left of the China Rocket out of Hangchau Bay, just south of
Shanghai. Fortunately, Europeans who had seen it happen could point out the spot. The observers just
happened to be an American movie actor and his party aboard a small yacht. The story they told was so
queer they were asked to repeat it quite a few times.
The China Rocket had come to a dead stop in the sky. Very suddenly. All its motors had halted. Then
the plane had fallen into Hangchau Bay. That was the eyewitnesses’ tale.
Authorities and newspapermen accounted for this remarkably unbelievable story with two explanations
which they considered probable: The observers had either made it up to grab some publicity, or they had
all been drunk. But some one had a more acceptable suggestion: An insane passenger had grabbed the
controls.
Details of the extremely modern construction of the plane were reprinted in America and Europe.
It did not appear in print that Clark Savage, Jr., better known as Doc Savage, had designed the plane.
Or, rather, the ship was an exact duplicate in shape and streamlining of two ships which Doc Savage had
built for himself. Doc Savage was not an individual who got in print when it could be avoided.
This point, missed by all but one person, happened to explain why the China Rocket crashed.
A YOUNG lady was the one who did not miss the point. She went down to breakfast in the coffee shop
of a Shanghai hotel the next morning, bought a newspaper as a matter of course, and naturally saw the
story of the China Rocket, and pictures of the ill-fated ship. She looked sharply at the pictures.
The young lady was tall, but her figure did not have a very good shape. Her hair was blond, but the
stringy kind of blond that does not interest any one. Horn-rimmed colored spectacles didn’t help her
looks any.
Her clothes were padded to give her a bad form, her hair was dyed, and the awful glasses hid the color
of her eyes. None of this was very easily detected. Actually, she was a stunning beauty.
The dumpy-looking young woman hastily turned pages until she found another airplane picture. The
legend under it said:
Miss Enola Emmel, of New York, lands her plane in Shanghai, bound on Orient tour.
The plane was outwardly a duplicate of the unlucky China Rocket.
The manager of the hotel happened to pass. He said, "I hope everything is satisfactory, Miss Emmel." He
was an American, and the hotel was American-owned and managed.
The young lady who was on the register as Miss Enola Emmel said, "Yes, thank you," rather absently.
She was thinking. She turned back to the plane-wreck news, and her expression became grim. She got
up and looked around until she found a telephone booth. It was a modern booth, just like those in New
York hotel lobbies.
The girl called a number in New York City by transpacific telephone. The connection required about ten
minutes.
A remarkable voice answered the telephone in New York. A male voice with depth, timbre and control.
Not a radio announcer on any network had a voice the equal of it.
"This is Pat," the young woman in China said. "Listen, Doc, have you read about the China Rocket?"
"Naturally," said the unusual voice.
"A hunch just struck me, Doc. You know—"
"Pat," said the voice, "you are supposed to be taking a vacation. You claimed you were tired of running
that beauty shop and ladies’ gymnasium, where you charge such outrageous prices. You borrowed one
of my planes, had it shipped to the Philippines, and started flying it yourself on a tour of the Orient. You
disguised yourself. You insisted you were going to have one vacation where no one would bother you.
Go ahead and take it."
The young woman said, "What I need is diversion, more than a vacation. I think I’ve found some
excitement."
"It is to be hoped not." The New York voice sounded weary.
"I think whoever crashed the China Rocket was after me!"
The response this got from the New York end of the long wire was strange. It was not an exclamation,
grunt or whistle. It was a fantastic sound. Probably the nearest description was trilling. It rose and fell,
eerie, but without tune. It was such a sound as might have been made by a small breeze.
THE young woman waited until the trilling sank into nothingness, then said, "My plane looked exactly like
the China Rocket. I left Manila at the same time, but stopped off in South China to see if I could find any
trace of Captain Cutting Wizer."
"You really went to China to find Captain Wizer, did you not?"
"Yes. He is an expert on electromagnetic dermatological science. When he visited New York some
months ago, he made me a little contraption that cures blackheads like nobody’s business. I want to hire
him to build more apparatus. But I can’t find him. Nobody knows where he went. Anyway, that could
have no connection with this. No one knows me here in Shanghai."
"Are you using your own name?"
"Of course not. I’m Miss Enola Emmel, an air tourist."
"Took the words ‘lemme alone’ and turned them around. Not especially good."
"I thought," Pat said, "it was right snitzy."
The man in New York asked, "Why should any one try to kill you, Pat?"
"Now you’ve got me. I cannot think of an enemy in the world."
There was a brief silence.
"The people on the boat who saw the China Rocket crash told a rather strange story, Pat. That is, their
description of how the China Rocket crashed. It came to a sudden, dead stop in the air, they said, so
you will recall. Of course, that is impossible. Planes do not come to sudden, dead stops in mid-air."
"Yes, Doc. It struck me as wacky, too."
"It might be advisable to look into the matter."
Pat said cheerfully, "I’ll meet you on Hangchau Bay where the plane crashed."
"You will not!"
"Please, Doc, I must—"
"This is one time you stay out of trouble, young lady. No more backtalk. Go on with your vacation."
"I won’t!"
"You will!"
Pat Savage appeared to have been backed into a corner. She grimaced, started to say something two or
three times, and finally emitted a dramatic groan.
"Oh, all right!" she snapped. "But I hope I run into a kidnaping or something up in these woods!"
Bang!
went the receiver, and Pat stepped out of the phone booth.
"MISS SAVAGE, I’m here to save you," a voice said at Pat’s elbow.
Pat—or Enola Emmel, as she called herself—gave a start and eyed the speaker.
"Didn’t you stop to think," she snapped, "that I might have a weak heart? And my name is Enola Emmel,
not Savage!"
The young man was as tall as any young man should be, and he had blue eyes, blond hair, a pleasantly
large mouth. His shirt and the handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket were a shade of light tan; his
well-cut suit, tie and shoes, were different shades of brown.
"Your specialty is giving others heart trouble," he said, cheerfully. "And I know you’re Pat Savage. I’ve
seen you before. Say, did you know your life was in danger?"
"My life—" Pat stared at him.
"Well, maybe not that bad. But a man’s trailing you. Oh, yes, my name is Halloc. Ky Halloc. I was at the
airport when you landed last night. An old man with whiskers was following you. Not to be outdone, I, in
turn, followed him. He is now loitering in the street. I’ll show you."
"I think you’re crazy, or else you’re kidding me," Pat said. But nevertheless she followed him.
Out on the street there was no white-whiskered gentleman, and Pat asked, "How did you happen to be
at the airport last night?"
Halloc grinned. "Just happened to be passing by and saw the plane land. I recognized you, then saw the
old boy follow you. He’s around somewhere. We’ll take a ride in my car. He’ll follow us, and you can
see him."
Halloc was no millionaire, judging from his car. It had been washed recently, though, and the
chromium—what there was—had been polished. It was a second-hand car shipped over from the
United States. He held the door open.
Getting in, Pat showed him the business end of an enormous, single-action six-shooter.
"Swell!" Halloc grinned. "I always wanted to wed a real old-fashioned sheriff’s daughter." He got in.
Pat kept the six-gun in her right hand, and kept her left hand on her left knee. That way, her arm would
prevent his grabbing the gun if he felt so inclined.
They drove through narrow streets, scraped some paint off the fenders turning cramped corners, but saw
no one. Then Ky Halloc gave Pat a surprise.
"Look here," he said, "what got Doc Savage interested in the Elders?"
Pat took off her colored glasses. Her eyes narrowed at him.
"I have no idea what you’re talking about," she said.
"Oh, don’t try to beat around the bush. Doc Savage started you investigating because you were least
likely to be suspected. Anyway, you knew the man."
It was with some difficulty that Pat managed to look composed.
"They tried to stop you yesterday, and got the China Rocket by mistake," Halloc said. "The two planes
looked alike. Instead of killing you, they killed those others by mistake."
"You listened outside the telephone booth!" Pat snapped.
"Nope."
"Then how did you—who are you, anyway?"
The young man took in a big breath.
"I’m a new pal of yours. Listen, does the name Viscount Herschel Penroff mean anything to you?"
It didn’t. Pat shook her head.
"Ever hear of Captain Cutting Wizer?" Ky Halloc asked.
"Captain Wizer?" Pat’s eyes widened. "You mean a nice old gentleman who is a surgeon experimenting
with electrical treatments for skin disorders?"
"Captain Wizer—nice old gentleman?" Ky Halloc looked queer.
"A wonderful old fellow," Pat said warmly. "I want to hire him to build skin-beautifying apparatus. Do
you know where he is?"
"Did he have a white beard?"
"No." Pat frowned. "Look here, what is this all about?"
The young man shook his head. "Either you’re fooling me and don’t know what a horrible fellow Captain
Wizer is or—well, we’d better talk this over. Say, I’ve got to smoke while I talk. Have you got a
cigarette? I’m out of them."
"I don’t smoke," Pat said.
Ky Halloc steered his car into the curb at a corner, stopped and shut off the engine. There was a tobacco
shop on the corner.
Pat watched him get out and walk quickly into the tobacco store. He had a nice, swinging stride, with his
shoulders held back. It was too early yet to tell whether he had any brains or not.
Pat was so interested in speculating about the young man that she did not observe a car until it stopped in
the street beside Ky Halloc’s machine. She gripped her gun and eyed the newly arrived automobile. It
looked harmless enough.
A smallish man, bundled to his ears in a gaberdine coat, was driving. Two persons were in the rear. All
three seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion. It was the kind of conference any travelers might
hold when puzzled about the road.
Then Pat gave a start. Beards! All three of them had white beards! The sight of so many beards startled
Pat. When the car door opened, she thought it was Ky Halloc returning, and neglected to look around.
The next instant, her six-gun was wrenched out of her fingers.
WHEN Pat looked around to see who had snatched her gun, she got one of the surprises of her life.
There was not one man. There were two. They both had pistols. One was already starting the car.
They both had white beards!
Pat took a moment to get over being stunned; then she went into action.
The white whiskers of the nearest man were nice and long. Pat grabbed and yanked. The fellow hadn’t
expected that. She got him down across her lap. He couldn’t very well shoot. Neither could his
companion.
With her free hand, Pat aimed a dig at the driver’s little pop eyes. He bleated and threw up his hands as if
he had found a snake in his lap.
Pat reached for her big six-shooter. At the same time, she twisted the whiskers with all her might. She
could feel some of them pulling out.
Then the curtain of unconsciousness fell down on things.
The bearded man from the other car hastily pocketed the gun with which he had clubbed Pat.
"Can you drive, General?" he asked.
"Yes," said the one whose eyes Pat had poked.
Both cars went down the street in a hurry. They did not, however, drive too fast. That might have
interested some of the military guards stationed about this, the foreign quarter of the city.
Ky Halloc came out of the Chinese tobacco shop with a pack of American cigarettes on which he had
paid an unearthly import duty. He looked about, and seemed surprised when he saw his car about four
blocks distant, moving rapidly. It turned a corner and was lost to sight.
Ky Halloc, after he had rubbed his jaw, gave a queer, short laugh.
"This," he said, "is just the first chapter."
Chapter II. THE WALL OF TERROR
PAT SAVAGE looked at some white whisker hairs in her fingers for a while after she awakened. They
had tied her wrists with a necktie, but her fingers must have remained unconsciously clenched on the
whiskers. She tried her strength. But the necktie was stronger.
Trees and brush were whisking past on either side. The woods did not look as if it had been farmed.
Wild country.
Pat looked her captors over. They were a queer pair. They reminded her of old owls. Their hooked
noses did that. The way they kept their lips tight made it look as if they had something in their mouths.
They did speak good English, though.
As she finished her inspection, she nearly snorted. They were dressed like a vaudeville team. Each wore
a gaberdine topcoat buttoned to the throat, and each head was topped by a hat shaped like a stewpan,
and made of some white fur that might have been dyed-and-clipped rabbit, or ermine.
Pat looked around. The other car was following.
"Well," Pat demanded, "what’s the meaning of this?"
"Quiet, madame," said one of the old men. "His Highness will confer with you when the time comes."
The time, it developed, was some distance off. The cars drove for half an hour—there was a clock on
the dashboard. Then both machines pulled off the road and headed for the shore of a lake. They nearly
got stuck. Every one alighted, and Pat was helped out.
Two canoes were cocked up on the lake shore. Every one got in them. Three of the men gave Pat every
help possible. When one of them did her a service, he always prefaced it by a funny little bow. The
canoes were of American make.
Pat wondered, as they paddled out in the lake, if they could swim. Two men were in her boat and three
were in the other. She could make good time with her hands and feet tied. Pat became intrigued with the
idea.
She upset the canoe.
THE old men could swim. They were, in fact, a bunch of old Neptunes. Pat, swimming underwater, just
started to vision escape—the water was loosening the necktie—when they caught her. She kicked
around some, but they held her.
They righted the overturned canoe, with the help of the bearded gentlemen in the other canoe, and spilled
the water out of it. Two of them gave their bows, then hauled Pat, dripping and madder than she could
remember being, into the craft.
Not a word was said by anybody. But it took great control for Pat to keep silent.
They rounded a headland. A plane—a seaplane, two-motored, big and fast—stood on the lake. A man
was inside, waiting.
More bows, and Pat was lifted into the plane cabin. The pilot—he had a helmet chin strap buckled under
his whiskers—had the bowing habit, also. He made Pat comfortable in a seat, then backed away.
The old men then upset both canoes.
"If the trail comes this far, the upset canoes may mislead them with thoughts of drowning," an old
gentleman told Pat. He smiled widely, then closed his mouth and held it as if he had something in it.
The plane then took off. The ship climbed beautifully. It headed south.
"I’m sorry, madame," one old man apologized. He bowed, then tied a scarf over Pat’s eyes; and Pat
thereafter could not see where they were going.
The plane finally landed nicely on water, taxied a bit, then the floats ground against what sounded like
rock; and other noises indicated the craft was being tied with ropes to the shore.
An old gentleman then removed Pat’s blindfold and bowed. "My arm, madame," he said politely.
Pat tried to jump into the water as they helped her ashore. She wanted to leave wet tracks. They politely
prevented this, then removed her high-heeled pumps, which might leave scratches on the stone.
The old men had also taken off their shoes. They all wore very woolly socks.
They walked in silence across the stone. Nowhere was there a blade of grass, although there were high,
wooded slopes around the lake.
A cleft appeared ahead. They walked to it. As they walked in, it narrowed, and quickly became the
mouth of a cave. The hole was not waist high, and only wide enough for one man at a time.
The old man in the lead stepped back, bowed, and said, "You first, madame."
Pat glanced angrily at the surrounding rocks. There was not much she could do. She bent and dived into
the hole. Straightening up, she looked around.
Pat’s career had not been entirely without scares. She had rather good self-control; but she suddenly
emitted a startled screech.
She had crept into the den of an enormous bear. And the occupant was home!
PAT knew a good deal about bears. This one was the worst kind. A grizzly! Monstrous! The beast
showed its fangs. A growl came from it. Then it started for her.
The grizzly was not a dozen feet distant, and grizzlies are not customers to meet at that range, even with
the most high-powered rifle.
Pat whirled, hopped for the outlet. Her feet were not now lashed with the necktie, but she doubted very
much if she could make it anyway.
One of the old men blocked the way.
The thoughts that lashed Pat’s brain the next instant were chaotic.
Shrill, chortling glee came from the old man’s lips. He had his head back. Laughing! Like a babe with a
lollypop!
"Be calm, madame," he said. "The bear is a pet. Perfectly gentle. Back, Moe!"
Moe stopped. He showed his teeth, lathered his gums with a red tongue, burped, then lurched around
and retreated.
"You can’t tell me Moe is a pet!" Pat said shakily.
"His temper may not be the best," the old man said sorrowfully. "You see, his stomach has been
bothering him. He likes that strong brown Chinese beer, but we unfortunately ran out of it."
One of the bearded men then stooped and began working on the floor. The interior of the cave was
veined with cracks, that being the nature of the stone.
The man working on the floor lifted a slab of stone—a trapdoor.
"You see," said Pat’s informant, "any one finding this place with Moe in it would think it a mere bear’s
den."
Pat almost remarked that as far as she was concerned it was anyway, but didn’t.
AFTER several polite bows, Pat was guided into the hole in the floor. She expected steps. There were
none here.
Pat discovered herself standing in what seemed to be a metal bucket about seven feet deep and three
across. There were handholds around it, and the sides were padded.
Three of the old men got in with Pat. The bucket lacked the size to hold all of them. The others said they
would wait for the second trip.
Some one operated a switch or a lever. The bucket sank. But the way did not lie downward much of the
distance, either. Instead, the bucket traveled on one side. Pat appreciated the padded sides and the
handles then. Because she had the sensation of standing on her head, she knew the bucket was being
pulled upward.
They came out in a twilight, and Pat looked around. What she saw was amazing enough that she
somewhat forgot about being mad.
She stood in a giant crack. There were walls of stone on each side, the natural rock sides of the crack,
which Pat judged to be four hundred feet high, or more. The width at the bottom was nowhere more than
two hundred feet. Strangely, the crack seemed narrower at the top. Pat decided this might be an optical
illusion.
Suddenly Pat became so interested in listening that she forgot all else. There was a sound in the air. A
weirdly fantastic sound. An orchestration. The vibrations did not rise and fall. They were steady.
Pat was escorted to a mass of stone which looked as if it had fallen into the crack, but hadn’t. It proved
to be a box of a hut, carefully camouflaged. There was a door, but no lock on the door.
"Unfortunately, madame, we never prepared to keep prisoners," an old man told Pat.
"Listen here, you old goats!" Pat snapped. "Why did you bring me here?"
"It is very simple, madame. You are associated with Doc Savage indirectly. You started to the Orient
and began inquiring for Captain Wizer. Obviously, you knew something. So we set about apprehending
you."
"But," Pat exclaimed, "I only wanted to hire Captain Wizer to build beauty apparatus!"
"In that case, we took some lives needlessly."
Pat looked horrified. "Then you did wreck the China Rocket?" she gasped.
"That was an unfortunate bit of futility, it seems—if you only wanted Captain Wizer to build beauty
machines," the old fellow said calmly, and walked away.
Pat stood and stared after him. She turned away. Utter revulsion was on her features. All those innocent
passengers aboard the China Rocket—
There was a noise at the door. Pat turned.
"Captain Wizer!" she gasped.
CAPTAIN WIZER was a tall affair of bones and wrinkled hide. He had no beard. He did have piercing
eyes and a forehead of almost remarkable size. He wore big horn-rimmed spectacles and they had thick
lenses which magnified his eyeballs, giving them a weird aspect. He wore a long white smock, very heavy
rubber gloves and a strange sort of mask of some kind of metal that resembled lead was dangling around
his neck.
"Ay yust bane learn ‘bout you," he said.
"You—you’re one of these butchers!" Pat snapped grimly. The old man—Wizer was past sixty—blinked
soberly.
"It vars too bad dis had to happen. Ay don’t vant to see you ha’ar."
"Who are these old men?" Pat asked.
"Ve oll bane Elders," said Wizer.
"So you old reprobates call yourselves the Elders, eh? I think murderers would be more apt."
Old Wizer blinked owlishly at her behind his thick spectacles.
"It yust bane too bad," he muttered. "Oll you can do bane to hope. Maybe—" He fell silent.
"What have I done?" Pat demanded angrily.
"You got yourself mixed up in somet’ings so big dot you can’t do anyt’ings ‘bout her. Ay vould not tell
you any more."
"But I only came to China to get you to design beauty apparatus!"
"Ay know. But ve make mistake. Ve bane tank Doc Savage send you to investigate us."
Pat could think of nothing to say to that. Old Wizer stood there squirming.
"Ay don’t tank His Highness bane here now," he said finally. "Vhen he come, Ay bane try to see you
don’t die. You bane awful pretty girl to die."
He shuffled away, head down, looking sorrowful.
摘要：

THEMOTIONMENACEADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.MENWITHBEARDS?ChapterII.THEWALLOFTERROR?ChapterIII.DEATHFANTASTIC?ChapterIV.WHISKEREDTROUBLE?ChapterV.MYSTERIOUSMASTER?ChapterVI.THEWORLDNET?ChapterVII.THETOWERESCAPE?ChapterVIII...

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